Reading held no comfort for Uthar Hardric. Not now. Not this evening.
He accepted the fact with a resigned sigh, looking back down without really seeing at the page he had been rereading for the seventh time in half as many hours. Seven times through the page, and he couldn’t recall a word of it. Faith, he couldn’t even remember how far he’d read before his eyes had finally given up on his wandering thoughts and drifted up from dark brown ink and spotted paper to gaze up at the gently murmuring leaves above his head.
Long years had passed since Uthar had discovered the huge oak with its broad trunk perfect for resting against, near the crown of Mathamhill. He’d been a slip of a boy with no more than ten years under his belt and no desire to spend the first day of summer in the smithy with his father, when his feet had carried him into the woods west of Matham and up the cool, shaded slopes of the hill. A crumbling wall of dark limestone too high to climb had ended his upward climb, so he’d followed the small cliff ‘round the face of the hill instead, south and west to a bowl-shaped hollow fenced in by the wall of stone. There he found the oak, its roots dipping into the cool water of a small brook that rippled down the moss-carpeted cliff, pooled in a sandy depression at the oak’s waist, and then disappeared into the woods below. The oak spread its might branches from one end of the hollow to the other, and its thick head of leave blocked out both sun and ran as well as any roof might.
Uthar had immediately fallen in love with the hollow and the oak, and soon his returning feet alone had worn a bare path from the edge of the village to the hollow. Years passed, and the hollow and the oak changed from a hidden nook where a small boy could hide from chores to a reflecting place where a young man could rest and think and read.
No book in Matham had been safe from him, and all too soon Uthar was hoarding what coins he earned as his da’s apprentice on the off chance that a passing peddler might have a book or two stuffed somewhere in his packs. Gaven Hardric never shared his son’s love of books and stories, but he didn’t discourage it either . . . at least as long as the smithy work was still getting done.
Even later in life—His da long buried with his ma and the smithy his to work as he saw fit–he’d continued to come to the oak, still reading and still thinking the thoughts of a boy who’s body had grown up almost without him realizing it.
He could admit to himself—sometimes—that he’d whiled away far too many hours alone, his back propped up by the sturdy oak, but through all the years not a soul had breathed a word of complaint. Not his da, not his ma, and especially not—
And that quickly Uthar Hardric was jerked out of his ruminations and slapped down hard in the here and now.
Lenora. His wife. Was she all right?
Marking his spot with a slip of ribbon he closed the book, careful to not fold any corners, and stood, trying to ignore the sudden sweat that tickled his brow while his eyes flashed over the forest below to the village and his–their, and it would be their’s for long years yet—home, like iron filings drawn to a lodestone. He was a fool to look, he would be sent for when the time came and not a moment sooner, and even more of a fool to worry; but the Ward Ban him, he could not help it.
Matham was nestled at the foot of Mathamhill, a hundred paces below Uthar’s feet and twice that distance to the east, a scattering of houses wreathed in smoke from fifty chimney’s and ringed about on all sides by a dark, some peddlers said grim, forest of fir and pine. The land rose from the village’s edge, first gently up to where Uthar stood and the bare pate of Mathamhill twenty feet higher, then it swept higher still, westwards and upwards. From where he stood at the lip of the hollow, Uthar could follow the swelling rise of the land: forest-clad hills of which Mathamhill was the smallest, mounting up in gently rolling waves ever higher, until the trees thinned out and then finally ended, giving way to brown slopes of scree and gray cliffs—the bones of true mountains—that vaulted higher still, until even those dark shoulders gave way to white snow and blue ice half hidden by wings of cloud stained red and orange by the setting sun.
Uthar couldn’t quite suppress a shiver when he saw those jagged peaks, and he pulled his coat tighter about his broad chest almost without thinking. The old tales—the sort he’d favored as a youth—spoke of dark things and dark men living in mountains. Fearfull things that most folk–even most folk in Matham–believed were no more than stories.
At times Uthar envied those other folk, safely wrapped in their own ignorance.
At time he wondered if he’d read to much—but as always, the thought brought a fleeting smile to his lips. No, he doubted that any man could read too much.
Besides, ignorance was a double edged sword. It protected some folk, kept them safe from the dark horrors that roamed the empty places of the world, things evil enought to drive a man mad to his bones. But there were some dark things that hunted men, had been hunting certain men—certain families—so long now that whatever causes had begun the hunt were buried in history so old that neither the hunters or the hunted remembered them. And all the books in the world couldn’t change that fact—as much as Uthar hated to admit it. Ignorance could kill such Faith-cursed men, kill them as sure as a bolt of lightning can split an oak to its core.
So he shivered when he looked at the mountains, and didn’t feel a fool in doing it. He shivered and envied his neighbors who had read less than he and had the blood of common men—blessedly common men—in their veins.
His gaze drifted from the far peaks down to the book he held in his hands, and his lips turned down in a thoughtful frown.
Not all the books in the world could unbury some secrets. He brushed his hand to his lips, his thumb tucked beneath his first finger—a simple sign to ward off watching eyes—and then touched his heart, inviting the protection of the Ward. Tonight he was grateful for buried secrets. The Faith send they stayed that way.
A light gleamed, flickered once in the far corner of his eye, and he jerked upright, his gaze snapping back to the dark mountains now veiled in coming night. The light—whatever the source—was gone now, but he searched out the spot it had flashed from quickly enough: a wedged gap that split the imposing wall of the mountains between two towering peaks, as if a giant had taken an enormous plow to the crust of the earth itself. His frown deepened as he watched the gap, eyes straining to spot any light. There had been an orange tint to the flash he had seen. A torch? A lantern, prhaps? Not lightning; not with that color, though the clouds lowering around the peaks were heavy enough.
The folk in Matham had no name for the gap or the peaks around it; they left the mountains alone and prayed each night that they’d be ignored in turn. But Uthar had come across the name, some years back, in a book of history he’d accepted from a peddler in lue of payment for a job done well and quickly. The book had called the gap the Pass of Althalair and had even named the two peaks, though Uthar couldn’t remember them. A thousand years ago a highway paved in stone had ran through the gap, connecting two nations whose name even the book hadn’t known. Now the road was dust—less than dust, it was buried in trackless forest along with the two countries who’d built it—and Uthar doubted that any man had walked the old highway or climbed up to the Pass of Althalair in five hundred years.
Who then, was lighting fires?
“Faith, Uthar! That face of yours looks fit to split nails on. Why, you’d think”—
Practically climbing into the air at the sound of another human voice, Uthar leaped around, landing in a wide-legged crouch, arms and hands extended to either side. He hadn’t thought to bring a knife of any sort with him, he hadn’t carried a weapon in years, and now he cursed his luck and moved forward onto his toes, ready to—
Renan Sorenth was staring wide-eyed at him from beneath his wide-brimmed, felt hat, the grin that seemed a permanent ficture on his long face sliding crookedly into a long frown. Uthar didn’t have a better friend in the world than the rail-thin farmer standing before him, but at the moment, Renen’s eyes were those of a man meeting a stranger; an unwelcome stranger at that.
“Renan, I”—Uthar sagged back onto his heels, the energy draining out of him like wine running out of a shattered battle. Scrubbing at his chin with a trembling hand he gave his friend an apologetic shrug, “I’m sorry, Renan. I don’t know what came over me.” His eyes moved of their own accord, back to the pass and the light that was no longer there.
Renan chuckled, but it sounded weak, almost an after-thought, and the farmer stepped up beside Uthar to joined him in watching the distant mountains.
“I’ve seen men fearing for their wives before,” the lanky farmer said, not turning to look at Uthar. “But you’ve a different fear on the mind, or I’m ten days dead and don’t know it yet. What did you see?”
For moment there was no sound but a growing wind out of the west. The gap was motionless, blank as a slate wiped clean and gathering more and more shadows about its rugged slopes by the moment. For a split second, Uthar tried to convince himself he’d seen nothing, just a trick of his eyes or the like. It didn’t work. He’d known it wouldn’t work.
Praying Renan wouldn’t think him Ward-struck, he turned to his friend and said, “I saw a light.”
“A light?”
“Yes. A torch or lantern moving at the base of that pass,” he gestured with one hand. “It was gone as soon as I saw it, but it was there, or I’m ten days dead and a stone-blind fool.
Renan was silent a moment longer, now studying the pass as intently as Uthar had been only moments before.
“Do you think we’ve been found out?” the farm said finally, and slowly too; the words came out as reluctantly as a fir trunk lodged in solid stone.
Cut to the chase—that was Renan Sorenth to the core, and Uthar smiled in spite of himself. Whatever trouble came Renan’s way was dealt with as calmly as another man might flick away an offending fly. The farmer was a comfort, a pillar that Uthar had relied on since the two had been no more than toddlers just off their mother’s apron strings.
There were some secrets that could never be unburied, but—the Faith be praised—Uthar Hardric did not have to share them alone.
“Could be,” he said in reply to the other’s question. “The Family has been here twenty-three years now. More than enough time for word to get to the wrong ears.”
Renan grimaced, still staring at the gap. “And it couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
That comment grabbed Uthar by the scruff of the neck and shook him. He had Renan by the shoulder before he himself knew it, jerking the man closer. “By the Faith man, thats right! What are you doing here? There’s no call to wander up here just because you can’t enter your own house!”
“The Cleansing is over and done with,” Renan said, the absent grin reforming on his thin lips. “The women called me in nearly an hour ago.”
“An hour?” Uthar repeated. It sounded more a curse when he said it.
“Aye, more than an hour now. They’dve called you too, but no one could find even rumor of you.” Renan slapped him on the back, “I had a feeling you’d be up here.”
“Well come on!” Uthar said, giving the other man one more squeeze on the shoulder before turning to lope down the narrow trail back to the village. Back home; back to Lenora.
“And what of the light?” Renan huffed, when he managed to catch up to Uthar again, fifty paces down the trail. “You can’t have forgotten already?”
“You should have sent someone, Renan,” Uthar said, not really hearing the other’s question. His mind was too full of Lenora, he ached to hold her, but was content just knowing she was safe. She had to be safe. Renan would have said said something if anything had gone wrong. “Nilana could be through the worst of it now. Faith, you could be a father already.”
“Widow Hafwood said Nilly had a good four hours left, and she’d have boxed my ears if I’d as much as looked doubtful. The light, Uthar?”
“And what of Leni? How long does she have?” She had to be all right.
“The widow seemed to think your missus’ time was a bit more in doubt. Two hours, maybe; three at the most.”
I could already be a father. The thought hit Uthar like a thunderclap and he stumbled on the trail, nearly falling before he could catch himself. Only an idiot ran after sundown, especially on a hillside trail. My child might already be waiting. Making a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob, Uthar ran faster.
Seconds later—though it seemed like hours to Uthar—lights began to wink between dark pines, and Uthar caught the first hint of cooking smoke in the air. They were there. They’d made it back to the village, and probably set a record doing it.
Renan was shouting something at him, but Uthar didn’t respond, almost didn’t hear the man, as he raced the last few steps—scattering a handful of hens like so many pins as he went—to the tiny cottage with its windows glowing gold in the darkness on the edge of Matham.
It wasn’t until he was fumbling with the gate latch—why did they even have the cursed fence?!—that he realized Renan was still making noise behind him.
“By the Faith, Renan, what is it?” Uthar shouted, and finally giving up on the latch he kicked the gate open. He turned to his friend, “Go home to your wife, she’ll be wanting you.”
“The light, Uthar.” Renan said again, and Uthar blinked. “What are we to do about the light?”
Pulse still pounding, Uthar tried to think. They needed to tell someone, that much was clear. But who? “I-I’ll go to Edin Carr,” Uthar said, setting the broken gate against the fence and stepping back onto the road. “He can rouse the rest of the Family, get the word out.”
He made to step past Renan, but the other man held up both hands and gestured back to the house. “I’ll go. You get inside and tell Leni you’ve a gate to mend tomorrow. I’ll be back here in two whistles.”
“Here?” Uthar asked incredulously, “But Nelly will be wanting you”—
“The girls insisted on being together for this, Uthar.” Renan said, already walking further into the village, “Nelly is put up in the front room. If I were you I’d go ‘round back. Leni is in your room.” The farmer waved him off, “Now get going.”
